


Tell no lies

by polychrome



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bathrooms, Daryl Needs To Use His Words, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Neck Kissing, Porn with Feelings, Sad Jesus, Showering Daryl, Showers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6223864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polychrome/pseuds/polychrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And just like that Jesus is between his knees, clear octarine eyes piercing straight through him. Daryl’s pretty sure he no longer has the capacity to breathe.</p><p>Chronological chapter order: 2, 1, 3, 4</p><p>No spoilers beyond s06e11 I think; all you gotta know is Jesus and Hilltop exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return to Hilltop

## Chapter 1: Return to Hilltop

‘I’ll help you get cleaned up.’

‘I ain’t no kid.’ Daryl tugs his vest closer, shackles rising half-heartedly.

‘And you “ain’t” no contortionist either. It’s fine, come on,’ says Jesus as he closes the door and traps Daryl in a carnation-pink bathroom, looking at him expectantly. ‘Strip.’

Daryl looks at the man for a full thirty seconds before it becomes apparent he’s going nowhere. With a sigh bordering on growl territory, Daryl shrugs off his leathers and pulls the undershirt over his head, grimacing as it peels away half-congealed blood, Jesus’ improvised dressing dangling from the sore flesh by a thread.

‘Sit.’ Jesus gestures.

Obligingly, Daryl heaves himself onto the sink counter and levels Jesus with a deadpan stare. The younger man’s only response is to smile wider, which makes Daryl’s stomach contract in a way that’s becoming all too familiar. Jesus’ youthful face, those impossibly bright, wide eyes – no matter how he tries, Daryl can’t picture those features contorted in malice. _That’s the problem_ , Daryl thinks. _Anyone left in this fucked-up world lookin’ that genuine must be one hellova liar._

He starts when long fingers curl around his bicep, urging him forward towards those bottomless eyes and all but putting him into cardiac arrest.

‘Turn a little,’ says Jesus, noticing Daryl is a few gears behind. ‘I need to get behind you.’

 _Yeah, tell me ‘bout it_. Daryl scowls inwardly, then grunts in affirmation and shifts to half face the wall as Jesus fiddles with the taps. Peering back, Daryl watches the man take a towel from a shelf beneath the sink – off-white with the telltale shadows of bleached bloodstains – and run it beneath the hot stream, wringing it out.

‘Sure you wanna get Gregory’s towels dirty?’

Jesus looks at him through a sheet of hair as he twists off the tap.

‘It’s my towel, much like it’s my room.’ He tugs at Daryl’s shoulder. ‘Turn around.’

Daryl does as he’s told, trying to concentrate on anything other than the anticipation of having Jesus’ hands on his skin. A hiss escapes through his teeth as the towel makes contact and Jesus smirks, dabbing at the wound until he’s satisfied most of the debris is gone.

‘It’s mostly bruised,’ he tells Daryl. ‘More of a graze than a cut – doesn’t look so bad without all the grime and dried blood in it. You’ll feel better when the swelling goes down.’

Daryl’s about to hop off the counter when he feels fingers trace across his back. He straightens, an involuntary shiver racing over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Suddenly hyperaware of every little thing, he has to make a conscious effort to control his breathing, the way a rabbit might when it knows a fox is closing in on its refuge. He chances a look at the other man.

‘That it? Can I wash now?’ His voice is gruff even by his standards. He swallows hard. Maybe Jesus hasn’t noticed.

Chancing a glance at the man, he sees a frown knit his brow.

‘Sure, just- hang on a sec.’

And just like that Jesus is between his knees, clear octarine eyes piercing straight through him. Daryl’s pretty sure he no longer has the capacity to breathe.

And then there’s a hand cupping the side of his face, fingers pressing gently into the base of his skull, combing into his hair.

Daryl struggles to remember the last time someone touched him like this. Sure, he has help getting patched up every other week, but any contact he gets from that is always clinical and, more often than not, unwelcome. But this is different – slow, intimate, deliberate. A lingering promise of pleasure waiting to be taken and eagerly given… _Idiot, snap outta it_ , he tells himself, even as Jesus’ other hand rises to frame his increasingly flushed face.

‘Move your jaw for me,’ Jesus says and Daryl opens and closes his mouth a couple times in an Oscar-worthy imitation of a guppy. ‘You took quite a hit today and the swelling’s right on the joint. Wanted to make sure it’s all working properly.’

Daryl narrows his eyes.

‘Right, ‘cause you wouldn’t want me to have any trouble using my mouth,’ Daryl grumbles, his face heating up despite himself. Jesus’ grin falters, colour rising to his cheeks and eyes darkening, and suddenly Daryl’s finding it a lot harder to keep his thoughts straight. _The hell am I doin’_ , Daryl mentally kicks himself.

He’s coiled, ready to spring for the door.

Jesus’ hands move, fingers spreading cautiously through his hair and kneading gently at his neck. Daryl leans into the touch, eyes fluttering and damn near _purring_ . Before he can reboot the mental processes required to tell himself to _get outta here_ , Jesus clears his throat.

When Daryl looks again, Jesus’ eyes are still too bright and fuck if he knows what to do with that information. The man holds his composure well, but Daryl can feel the irregular tugging at his hair. _He’s fidgeting_.

‘Daryl…’ Jesus says, and Christ does he look alive, all shining eyes and moist, parted lips and heavy breath – the opposite of everything on the other side of the wall encircling Hilltop.

Daryl ‘mm’s in response, taking comfort in the intoxicating pressure of the fingers still working through his hair.

‘I want to kiss you.’

His heart beating like the wings of caged bird, Daryl can do little more than stare into the man’s eyes as the fingers quieten. After a few quaking breaths that ricochet through the silence he reaches a hand up to Jesus’ cheek, slowly as though ready to run at the snap of a twig.

No twigs snap.

Daryl’s hand settles on pliant skin and springy beard, moves tentatively towards the parted lips until his thumb can brush over them, stuttering his breath.

Never taking his eyes off Daryl, Jesus leans forward and places a kiss on the pioneering thumb, feels the hand tremble against his skin. He moves forward past the point where his nose might bump Daryl’s, the other man closing his eyes, breath coming shakily through parted lips as they brush Jesus’.

For stretched minutes they share breath. Jesus moves minutely, as though testing the texture of Daryl’s skin with his cheek, nose, overly sensitive lips, and Daryl chases after every touch. Over and over, lips brush and turn away, coy but deliberate, indulgent movements to savour this fleeting moment. One, or perhaps both, of them shudders.

When their lips find one another for what must be the thousandth time they pause – and Jesus kisses softly Daryl’s bottom lip, catching it and drawing a shuddering breath from the older man. Then Daryl responds, mirroring the action.

The scene kicks into triple speed.

Within the space of a breath the pair are tearing at each other with open-mouthed skirmishes, messy and imprecise and damn near perfect.

In the spaces where Jesus glimpses an awareness beyond tongues and teeth he feels the hands at his waist, drawing him forward. He presses over the sill of the counter, as far as he can against the hunter’s bare skin and feels the thick denim of his jeans digging into his stomach, cloaking a length throbbing and hard.

He draws off enough to stare into Daryl’s wild eyes, the man heaving with darkened breath, and presses his hand to Daryl’s thigh. He moves it forward at a deliberate pace and watches the man before him fall a little bit more apart, every inch the cornered predator. Daryl has to look away more than once and Jesus wonders if he’s pushing too far, too fast – but those hands are still gripping his waist and he’s nothing if not an optimist.

The hand stops shy of its target and presses into the crease of his leg, pulls the fabric tight across Daryl’s erection. He braces his head against Jesus, the man nuzzling into his neck, his hair.

After a few moments Daryl regains some mental faculty and with it his courage. When Jesus moves somehow closer into his space he slips one hand from the lithe waist and down. His movement is jerky, unpractised and uncertain, but he manages to hook one thumb over Jesus’ belt and tugs. He only notices that the other man has stopped worrying his neck when slender fingers tighten over his wrist.

‘’t’s ok,’ Jesus husks out between heavy breaths, pulling away just enough to level Daryl with a ravenous stare, inky pupils all but blotting out his whatever-the-hell-colour-they-are eyes. He pushes Daryl’s hand back onto the counter, threading his fingers through his with a firm grip that sends a bolt of arousal through the hunter. ‘I’ve got it.’

A the brief window of clarity dawns over Daryl as Jesus turns his attention and hurried fingers to Daryl’s belt, movements concentrated on the task at hand but somehow more hurried, less explorative than before – as though Daryl might throw him off any moment.

_He’s lettin’ me have this._

The realisation grips Daryl’s chest and he grabs Jesus’ wrists, stilling his efforts. The man looks up and his face is enough to break Daryl’s heart. The flushed cheeks and sinfully red lips are still there, but the heat in his eyes is rapidly being chased away by panic.

As Daryl pushes off the counter, the younger man takes a step back and stumbles over the bathmat as much as his words.

‘Daryl, it’s- I don’t want anything from you, I just- you, it doesn’t have to mean anything, ok?’ He rakes a hand through his hair, white shirt tugging up and showing Daryl more evidence of his arousal. ‘I’ll do whatever you want, and- we can say nothing happened, I just- I helped with your cut and that’s it.’

Daryl is still breathing hard and erratic, his mind playing catch-up to Jesus’ splintered words.

‘You sayin’ I can what, _use_ you an’ you’ll be grateful?’ Daryl narrows his eyes.

‘I get it – this isn’t my first rodeo, so to speak. I don’t- after we leave this room it can be like nothing happened. I won’t tell anyone.’

When the hunter just stares at him Jesus half looks away, grimacing and Daryl thinks he hears the man mutter a curse to himself before he turns back, hands grasping at the air as though he can pluck a sentence from it that would make everything ok. Those impossibly wide eyes stare up at Daryl, piercing him with a bright bolt of guilt.

‘Daryl, I- I’m sorry.’

Daryl stares at him, waiting for the punchline, the other shoe to drop.

_Guy’s more of an idiot than’ gave ‘im credit for._

It’s the redneck who takes the initiative, looking at his feet to gather more courage than he’s needed in longer than he can remember.

‘I’m not.’ When he looks up, Jesus is studying his face, guarded. So Daryl lifts his hand to the man’s waist, breath growing heavier as his fingers settle on firm flesh, pupils blowing wide at the answering hitch in Jesus’ breath.

‘You really are an idiot.’

He has to tilt his head down to match the few inches’ difference in their height, lowering his face until their noses brush, Jesus’ hot breath escaping in aborted gasps that wash across Daryl’s skin and nigh on overwhelm him. Daryl barely registers the palm move up his chest in a caress, not quite daring to claim any more of Daryl’s flesh.

Their lips meet tentatively at first, in a touch that Daryl could still convince himself is accidental. But then he lifts his half-lidded eyes and finds Rovia’s incomprehensible, impossible gaze cutting through him and dammit, he’s only human.

It’s funny how someone can throw themselves before hordes of undead on a daily basis without so much as a flinch, but when it comes to coming flush up against another person it takes everything he’s got not to turn tail and run.

With the first moan that escapes Rovia’s lips, Daryl’s lost. He pushes against Jesus’ mouth and the other man matches him at every turn, tongue lashing out and teasing a near-desperate whine from the hunter, hands tangling into his hair. A buck against Daryl’s hips turns his growls feral.

‘I’m here,’ Daryl finds himself rasping between the ‘damn it’s and ‘fuck’s.

He’s not sure when his hands had slid past Jesus’ baggy shirt but they’re certainly digging into his back now, pulling the man flush against his body until they’re as close as possible and then some, but still not close enough. A growl tears from Daryl’s throat and he turns, whipping Rovia round with him until he’s pressed against the counter and moaning senselessly against his mouth. Desperation usurps any control jesus’ holding on to and he rolls his hips against the blatant bulge in Daryl’s pants.

‘Fuck- Wait.’ Daryl’s voice is hoarse as he visibly regroups.

It takes Jesus a moment to hear him but when he does, he freezes and that terrible expression comes creeping back over his face.

‘ _No_ ,’ Daryl growls, pushing one hand into the man’s hair and making him keep eye contact. ‘That’s not why I’m stoppin’. Ain’t doing this if you gonna think it’s jus’ me takin’ advantage. I want this.’ He searches the man’s face, close to ravishing him but needing to get this down in flesh if not stone. ‘Do you?’

Jesus’ eyes widen (somehow) more, and Daryl swears he’s never seen the man look more earnest.

‘I do,’ he says, mask slipping. ‘I want you, Daryl.’

The hunter can’t help the strange warmth that accompanies those rare words and pours rivers of lightning along his veins. Jesus pushes towards him again but slower this time, gentler, taking his time to meet Daryl’s lips, a small smile playing playing as much across his mouth as the hunter’s heartstrings.

‘Paul goddamned Jesus Rovia,’ Daryl mutters and leans in, determined to wipe the flourishing grin off Jesus’ face.


	2. Ask no questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this chapter precedes Chapter 1. The different parts of this chapter don't happen on the same day, but over days or perhaps even weeks.

## Chapter 2: Ask no questions

 

Daryl’s arm-deep in a metal trunk of garage rubble – water bottles part-filled with coloured liquids, stained rags, loose bolts. The addictive reek of white spirit permeates everything, softened by oil and grease. A bike stands part-assembled behind him, a patchwork of scavenged parts melded into one machine. 

It had been Jesus’ idea. They’d been out scouting a petrol station long since picked clean when the man found a chrome cylinder amidst the clutter in the small workroom. He’d heard Daryl wax poetic about his old ride, and the ones since then, and about what he’d do when he came across the people who’d taken it from him. In fact, he’d heard Daryl talk about a whole lot of things. Whenever the hunter set off out, Jesus would appear and tag along like he was apprenticing as his shadow. 

He’d held out the part, posture open, smile genuine, eyes earnest. Always looking directly at him like some shining light. Always eager to give Daryl his undivided attention. 

“I imagine you’re good with your hands.” He’d grinned and tossed it over. “Why not build a new one?” 

Daryl’s not sure when he stopped thinking of Jesus as an outsider, but these days he kept a conscious tally on him the way he did with his family; made certain he knew he was safe. He knows he gravitates towards the man as much as the other way around. Whether it’s at noisy mealtimes, with Judith hurling precious rations to the floor in contagious glee, or quiet hours keeping watch above this new world, Daryl feels pulled to him. But it’s more than that. He makes him feel a hundred things at once. 

Makes him feel wanted. 

Daryl wipes the sweat from his cheek with the back of one hand, spreading grease. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Jesus stuck around. Maybe he’s been as alone as Daryl has, as anxious about giving a part of himself to someone else again and risking losing it. Maybe they’d be good together, maybe they’d both survive. 

“Maybe I’m gettin’ too comf’table with these fumes.” 

“You say something?” 

_ Speak of the devil _ . 

The rubble strewing the place turns Jesus’ walk into a saunter, makes him raise his feet high and shake them free of straggling debris. 

“Christ, Daryl, what’re you rummaging around in there for when you’ve clearly already emptied everything on the floor.” He runs his hands along the body of the bike and whistles, long and slow. “It’s really coming along.”

Daryl grunts. “You here for a reason or just tryin’ t’ get in the way?”

“I was just looking for my favourite surly mechanic heart-of-gold hunter type. Not seen you all day.”

“Ever think I might’a been hidin’ from you?”

Jesus’ grin spread. “Now why would you be doing a thing like that?”

There’s that glint again, the one that lights up his eyes and makes Daryl’s chest tight. He tries to stop the smirk playing on his lips. 

“Could be I don’t like you hanging around.” 

“I don’t believe that.” 

Daryl shrugs, unable to look away. “Hey, ask no questions…”

Jesus reaches out a hand to Daryl’s face, smudges the dark oil across his cheek with a thumb. 

“You know, you don’t have to keep being alone like this.” Jesus’ eyes draw his in, grounding and disorienting all at once. “I get it. You’ve been through hell. But it doesn’t mean hell’s all that’s left.” 

“We’ve all lost people.” Daryl wraps his hand around those fingers and pulls them away from his face, his voice quiet. After a few breaths, he lets go. 

Jesus steps away, idly rubbing at his skin but only spreading the darkness. 

“I know what it’s like to feel alone, even with that many people around you.” He brings his hand up to his chest, as though massaging an old scar. “No matter how close they get, there’s this… core inside that stays closed off.” 

Daryl’s voice is barely a whisper. “Could be it’s better that way.” 

They stand for a minute in silence, just watching each other, in no great hurry for anything. When the world ends, the only thing that’s sure is the past; you measure your days as they come. 

Eventually Jesus stretches. 

“Actually there is a reason I’m here.  _ Another  _ reason,” he corrects. “Carol’s set up a big communal meal, there were a lot of vegetables getting ready to go off and, well, waste not. You coming?” 

On the walk through town Daryl keeps pace, keeps the rhythm of Jesus’ footfalls through dry leaves, keeps close. For the first time in almost longer than he can bear to remember, he lets himself feel one of the arrows lodged deep in his chest. 

_ You’re gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon. _

 

* * *

 

A hunter’s eyes don’t miss much. The hand disappears from Jesus’ waist in half a heartbeat, but Daryl sees it plain as the flush on his face. 

“Mr Dixon, how can I help?” Dr Carson smiles, sidesteps minutely away from Jesus. Looking from one man to the other, Daryl shakes his head. 

“S’nothing, I’ll come back.”

“Nonsense, I’ll always have time to see to the man who saved my life,” Carson says, then frowns. “Of course these days that list is getting a bit long. What are you after?” 

Jesus moves around the examination table taking up the cramped trailer and Daryl noticeably jerks to avoid touching him, keeping his head pointed firmly towards the wall. 

“Just here t’ pick up a list of what supplies you need.”

The doctor nods pleasantly, gathers together a sheet of paper and pencil from a cluttered worktop and begins filling it up with spider-scrawl, stopping now and then to check nearby shelves. 

Daryl’s standing stiff in the narrow opening by the door, careful not to catch his bag on anything, radiating all the ease of a feral wolf. His eyes roam the room and fall on Jesus for half a moment, catching a forced smile before he scowls and looks away. 

“Jesus, while I have you, it’s really been too long.” Carson’s eyes are cast down as he rifles through the papers, voice incidental. “I’ve got a few things to take care of now, but you should come by for a checkup after dinner.” 

Jesus’ voice is sinew. 

“Won’t be necessary. May have been a while, but I’ve been feeling better than ever.” 

“I don’t know,” Carson replies leisurely. “Whenever you come to see me I manage to find something that needs my urgent attention.” 

The air in the trailer is thick and heavy even with the door hanging open, and all of a sudden the hunter’s needs out of there. 

“Hell, just give ‘em t’ Maggie,” Daryl growls and storms indelicately from the room, knocking loose shrapnel from clustered surfaces in his wake. 

Carson looks up as the door slaps closed and claps a few times before settling ajar. Jesus is all hardened eyes and tight lips. Carson scoffs. 

“What, you getting yours from the hillbilly now?” 

“Carson just– shut up. This colour really doesn’t look good on you.” 

The doctor closes the few feet between them, the other man standing his ground in the small room. 

“What exactly have you told him about– this?” Carson’s hand grips Jesus forearm. The younger man clenches his fist, muscles tightening beneath the fingers. 

“I haven’t told anyone anything about ‘this’. You know why? Because there is no ‘this’,  _ Carson _ .” It’s no effort to jerk free of the grip. “I thought you made that quite clear.” 

The physician looks him up and down, and cocks his head with a sigh. 

“Alright. Good. But when your plan to settle down with a nice man and two-point-five kids falls through, my door will still be open.” He turns back to the counter, picking up the pencil. “I’ll see you soon, Paul.”

Jesus looks from the man’s back to the littered floor, brown pill bottles and scraps of old notes leading a trail after the man who’d just left. 

* * *

 

 

Jesus has an uncanny way of sneaking up on him. No matter how many times he’s startled from his skin by a sudden greeting or turns to find him leaning casually nearby, utterly at ease and sporting a smile like he’s in on some secret joke, Daryl just about has a heart attack.  _ One of these days he’s going to startle a bullet out of someone. _ For the hundredth time, Daryl tells him as much, though this time he isn’t smiling. 

“Look, what d’ya want from me?”

“Rick said you two were going to look for those cars we spotted before. Thought I’d give you a hand.” 

Daryl snaps another piece off the stick in his hands, stripping away the bark. His crossbow was long gone, but that didn’t keep him from whittling fresh bolts for it. 

“That ain’t what I meant an’ you know it.” 

Jesus drops his grin and looks into Daryl’s narrowed eyes, all peace and sincerity.  _ How does he do that? _ A gloved hand reaches to where Daryl’s grips the wood, resting on calloused skin. 

“Is it that hard to believe I like you?”

Daryl can feel his chest rise and fall, jaw tight. 

“‘s hard to believe you don’t have another motive.” 

Seconds stretch thin and then Daryl’s looking past Jesus’ shoulder, shaking his hand free. He strafes to the right, jerking his head at Rick in greeting, and lets the bolt drop to the floor. Jesus takes a slow breath. 

When he turns to face the pair he’s all smiles and clear, unreadable eyes. 

The three hike at pace for nigh on a half-hour before hitting the road and splitting up to speed up search. Two pairs of tracks lead off-road; they wouldn’t have got deep into the forest, where the trees crowd together in dense groves. Daryl knows Jesus is trailing him a few dozen metres deeper into the woods, but refuses to turn to check. 

And that’s how Daryl, post-apocalyptic badass and tracker extraordinaire, misses the hand. 

It surges up through dead leaves and clasps around his boot as he’s looking left, making a show of displaying how unruffled Jesus’ presence makes him. Daryl barks as it drags him down. More crisp leaves and twisted branches thrust up to meet him and he sees the earth rise up to eat him. The sky disappears and pointed hooks claw at his body, dragging up his clothes and tearing skin. His boot collides with soft earth or slick flesh and pushes through. 

He’s falling. 

The leaves clear and the walker is there, underfoot and biting impotently at the thick leather of Daryl’s boot. Wild-eyed, the hunter stomps once, twice through the squelch of water-logged brain and too-soft bone. 

Daryl jerks side to side searching for hidden things in the leaves and already Jesus is skidding down the sharp incline, knives blazing. 

“Daryl,” he exclaims for a second time, spinning to map the area – a hole in the earth, tree roots, the recent wreck of the car, spoilt remains beneath Daryl’s foot. He sinks to one knee. 

“You ok?” 

“‘m fine.” Daryl surges off the moist dirt and half roars, grimacing. “Sonovabitch!” 

Jesus catches onto his arms and pulls him upright, eyes searching for the wound. Daryl’s hand goes to his back and comes away painted red. He reaches again past the torn material, groping around for the jagged branch suspended in his shirt. When he turns to Jesus he finds the man’s face pure elation. 

“Christ, I thought the walker– Are you sure it was just the branch?” 

Daryl’s reaching back, counting the damage. 

“Ain’t no ‘just’ about it, fucking put a hole in my vest.” 

Jesus turns his grin down to a simmer. A groaning makes him turn. He walks over to the two walkers in the front of the car, pinned down by seatbelts, and neatly slides his knife through each skull. He wipes the blade on their clothes, sheathes it and pockets his gloves, coming back to where Daryl’s peeled off his leather vest. The hunter has one finger through the ragged tear and a pained expression on his face. 

“Come on, let me have a look.” Jesus has pulled up one sleeve and is unravelling a length of greyed material from his arm. He flashes Daryl a grin. “Never know when you’ll need a bandaid.”

Daryl glares at him, one hand pressed to his back and the other trailing his vest on the ground. 

“I don’t need–” 

“–Rick on your back for getting an infection and passing out in the middle of a supply run? Or Gregory for bleeding all over the upholstery?” Jesus perseveres through Daryl’s scowl, smiling pleasantly. “Come on. If you’re good I’ll see if I can find you a lolly afterwards.” 

His pulse is already quickening and he decides fuck it, the sooner he backs down the sooner this limpet will leave him be. Daryl sighs.  _ Dunno who I’m even tryin’ to fool no more _ . 

“Fine,” he bites out, turning his back towards the younger man who immediately reaches for the hem of his shirt. 

Daryl grits his teeth, back stiffening. There’s a moment of stillness before he feels fingertips on his skin, light and careful, moving as though reading braille scored into his skin. Daryl curses under his breath, tightening his jaw to fight down a wave of shame. 

“You patchin’ me up or stopping to take a picture.” 

He hears a  _ tsk _ . 

“Just finding it hard to keep my hands off you, Dixon.” 

Indignant heat floods over Daryl’s face but he can’t help the little leap his chest gives at the comment.  _ Stupid _ . 

“Alright, this is going to sting a bit” is all the warning he gets before icy water splashes across his skin, surprising a gasp and another thread of curses from the hunter. 

“Shh, sorry, I won’t do that again. If only because I don’t have any water left.” The grin is palpable in Jesus’ voice. The fingers return, this time pulling gently at the tender flesh. “Ah shit, there’s a fair bit of dirt in here. We’ll have to sort it out properly back at the house. Hold still.”

Daryl does as he’s told, paralysed by a mix of giddiness and indignation. Firm hands press the makeshift bandage to his back, smoothing over it before carefully tugging the shirt back in place. 

“It’s a cliche, but that doesn’t make it any less true,” says Jesus, his voice soft. “A scar means you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.”

Jesus’ hand is still on his back, no longer smoothing the bandage but just  _ there _ . Warm and sure, like the presence Daryl can feel stepping closer to his side. A thumb strokes across the fabric; Daryl breathes in shakily and leans into it. He turns his head and he can see him, practically hear his heightened heartbeat. 

_ I could do it. I could take him an’ consequences be damned.  _

A crisp  _ snap  _ sounds through the woods. 

“Hey, everything alright?” 

Daryl leaps two metres away from Jesus in one stride, cornered gaze jumping from him to Rick as the man adjusts his stance at the top of the incline, branches crunching underfoot. A rose flush dyes Daryl’s cheeks. 

“Uh, yeah, we found a few walkers an’ this thing,” Daryl manages, turning away and studiously facing any direction but Jesus’. “Reckon we can wrangle a few spare parts, syphon off whatever’s left in the tank.” 

Rick looks over the car from his vantage point and nods, gesturing roughly at the sky. “We can come back in the morning, bring a few canisters with us. You injured?” 

“Nothin’ much, scratched myself on the roots here. ‘m fine.” Daryl hikes up towards Rick, who gives him a hand up the final stretch with no preamble, two parts of a familiar mechanism. Jesus watches them blankly. 

“You should go get yourself cleaned up, Denise hasn’t got much left in the way of antibiotics.” 

Daryl pointedly doesn’t look back as he trudges in the direction of Hilltop, boots dragging through discarded leaves. “Why don’t you ask Paul here if Dr Carson’d be willin’ to share.” 

  
  



	3. Chasing cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, and thank you for reading. One more to go after this :) I hope you enjoy.

## Chapter 3: Chasing cars

 

Daryl is near purring as the slender fingers card their way through his hair. He’s trying to ignore the way they keep catching when a particularly sharp tug makes him wince and a twig untangles itself from his locks and makes for the floor. He screws up his face, uncharacteristically aware of how much grime and sweat the last few days have left on him. Hell, he’d be surprised if there weren’t leaves straggling his hair, mud everywhere else.

He pulls away, eyes averted and voice hoarse. “I should prob’ly take that shower…”

The tiled walls echo Jesus’ breath as he catches up with his reeling head and nods reasonably. “Sure, yeah, that sounds like a… yeah.” He swallows thickly, looking between the shower and the hot mess in his arms. He jerks his head. “Reckon you could use a hand?”

Daryl’s eyes are dark as they follow Jesus over to the shower, watch him twist the thing to life and test the water, steam rushing through the small room. He’s barely moved a muscle but somehow Jesus takes that as a vote of confidence and raises hands to his own chest, letting them travel down the front of his shirt, tripping open buttons until he can shrug it to the floor.

Daryl stopped thinking in sentences buttons ago.

Deft fingers unclasp Jesus’ belt as the man takes step after painstaking step towards the hunter. The button of his jeans follows soon after, then the zip. Daryl’s beyond knowing where to look when; thankfully, the other man is too close for that to really be an issue.

Unpicking Daryl’s fingers from where they’d clamped onto the shelf behind him, Jesus places them onto the lip of his jeans – jeans which, Daryl notices with a fresh thrum of heat, are barely holding on to the thin white hipbones. Jesus takes a moment to lick his lips when the hunter’s blown pupils rise again to meet his.

“I’m all yours, Dixon.”

It’s Pavlov’s bell and Daryl practically growls. He pushes against Jesus’ mouth and pulls at the waistband, pressing flush against him. A small moan escapes Rovia’s lips and is quickly consumed.

They back up to where the water’s pouring hot and fast when Daryl pulls at the jeans, pulls and abruptly stops, unsure what to do next – until Jesus’ fingers encircle his and push them down past where his fly’s gaping open, tearing a “ _fuck_ ” from the hunter as his hand is cupped around the hot, thick length straining against thin fabric.

It’s unclear which of them makes quick work of the jeans after that. The hunter can’t even bring himself to care when he feels his own garments tugged from his hips and, with some urging from Jesus, steps out of them, leaving denim and cotton pooling on the floor as they tumble into the water spray.

Daryl hisses and pulls back when it washes over the torn skin of his back, stinging.

Jesus grimaces in sympathy.

“How’s that feeling?”

“Perfect.” Daryl deadpans, breath still coming heavy, while Jesus rolls his eyes.

“Turn ‘round, I’ll soap it out. We can disinfect it after.”

Daryl gives a slow nod, his dick jerking in protest of the interruption, and turns just enough for Jesus to glimpse his back.

A fruity smell floods the senses as Jesus grabs hold of the shower gel and pops the lid, squeezing a translucent glob into his palm. Daryl raises an eyebrow and Jesus responds with a half-shrug, glancing at the tube in his hand before waggling it at the hunter.

“‘Mango Magic’. Not a fan?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Yessir.” He reaches a soapy hand between Daryl’s wings and slips the gel onto his skin, slim digits working circles into the tense muscle. His hands slide to cover more ground as he steps closer, one roaming Daryl’s back, the other making its way up his chest. “It must be simply torturous having a handsome young man lather you up in a nice, hot shower.”

Daryl scoffs, wincing a moment later when Jesus’ fingertips brush torn skin.

“Shh,” Jesus hushes, right hand slipping around the taller man’s neck and catching hold of soaked hair to bring their mouths together again. Daryl feels the smirk curl against his lips before Jesus pulls away, eyes alight with mischief. The shower gel back in hand, he proffers it to Daryl, feigning innocence as he suggests, “Do me?”

Years of stalking prey taught Daryl’s body the importance of control, but it’s with some effort that he keeps his eyes levelled on Jesus’ and thrusts an open hand between them, accepting the sticky fluid. The spark in Jesus’ eyes as Daryl rubs it between his hands suggests that maybe he isn’t fooled. Daryl chooses to ignore it.

He places his hands on Jesus’ shoulders and slides clear gel into his skin, forming a white lather. It trails down his body in rivulets and contours lithe muscles, further and further, leading his fingers along the downward curve of taut flesh.

A gasp racks Jesus’ body and he draws himself up, arms wrapping Daryl’s neck as the hand finds its target. Fingers spread wide, Daryl gathers his tight balls and presses in, trapping Jesus’ entire dick between his arm and the smaller man’s toned stomach. It pulses heavy in his palm, no fabric in the way now, and Jesus bucks up, crashing against his mouth with renewed desperation.

The hot spray conspires with Jesus’ lips to convince Daryl he’s drowning as hands roam over wet flesh. Jesus’ mouth finds his collarbone and bites down, sending him arching back against the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” Daryl growls and, when the world returns to its regular rotation, realises the rumbling against his neck is the other man’s laughter.

“What?” he rasps, flustered and infinitely out of breath. The face that looks up to meet him is all flushed cheeks, cherry lips and twinkling eyes, and Daryl’s swept up by the desire to kiss that laughing mouth. He squashes it down.

“‘Jesus Christ’?” the man manages between gasps. Daryl ducks his head to hide a wide grin and groans, though a chuckle betrays him.

“Don’ get cocky.” He catches the man’s jaw in one palm, pulling that grin into his own before he can come out with some sappy comment. His other hand circles Jesus’ biceps and he pushes forward, crowding the slighter man as he revels in this small surrender, butterflies dancing.

With every bite and gasp the movements grow more frenzied, suds and water slick where Jesus’ cock slides maddening against the inside of Daryl’s hipbone, just missing the other man. A calloused palm snakes down to fasten around them both and Jesus keens, brow furrowing helplessly as he grips to Daryl’s neck like a lifeline. But the rhythm stutters, mistimed, and Daryl’s dick slips from his hand as Jesus thrusts in. He reaches to correct the stumble and succeeds only in knocking his nose into the other man’s head.  

“Shit!” Daryl hisses, frustration palpable. He takes a breath to regain some composure, and locks eyes with the man coming apart in his arms.

“Tell me what to do, what you want–” He gasps as Jesus rolls his hips again, the head of his dick burning in Daryl’s palm as he draws out and in. He plants a kiss at the corner of Daryl’s mouth, his cheek, until all the hunter can feel is his breath, hot and heavy, making his blood pump harder in his veins. He pulls back, searches Jesus’ face. “Anything you want.”

Jesus bites his lip, eyes wild, and slides a hand down Daryl’s arm to where his rests on his waist. He grips it and pushes it behind himself. “I’ve fantasised doing so many things with you, Daryl. To you. You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this, feel you…”

The fingers move across curved flesh and Daryl swallows thickly, all the while Jesus’ dick pushes in and out as he whispers out his sins. “Your cock slipping down,”–he pushes Daryl’s thick fingers to his cleft, over soaped-up mounds, pushes his ass out at the bottom of each thrust–“slipping down and slipping _in_ –”

Jesus pushes back and Daryl’s breath stutters, feeling him purse against his fingers.

“ _Fuck_.” The finger breaches Jesus’ body and he leans back on it, spearing himself, and every coherent thought Daryl’s ever had renders null.

“I want you so fucking much, Daryl. I wish I could have you everywhere at once – in my ass, my hand, my mouth, just filling me complete–” He’s spun round to press into the wall, hands already braced in anticipation. There’s a plastic snap and a second’s incoherent muttering – he catches a few curses – before Daryl’s back against him, heavy and hot.

“‘Jesus’ my ass.” Daryl’s voice is all gravel. “You’re the devil incarnate.”

Jesus’ chest leaps as fingers clench at one cheek, a thigh pushing at the other until he’s spread wide for Daryl’s fingers. Two enter the eager hole and Jesus bucks, a half-cry, half-moan torn from his throat. Daryl pushes further, scissoring his knuckles against little resistance and Jesus bucks again, urging them closer.

“Maybe you just bring out my sinful side.”

His eyes roll back into his skull as the fingers are replaced by something much thicker.

Daryl growls and pushes steady, breath heavy, feeling the entrance stretch further and further to accommodate him until the whole head is swallowed up. He can just about make out the thrum of the water and Rovia’s desperate moans over the near deafening rush in his ears.

One at a time, he lifts his hands to Jesus’ hips and leans in to sink kisses into the soft flesh of his throat.

“’s it feel ok?”

The gasp that accompanies Jesus’ full-body jerk borders on a sob.

And Daryl bites his lip, fingers digging into pale flesh as he wills himself to keep still, balls heavy enough to spend any moment. He drags in a shaky breath.

“Yes. _Yes_. Please don’t stop.”

Daryl nuzzles behind his ear.

“I’m gon’ go slow, but you tell me if it stops feelin’ good. Ok?”

He waits for Rovia to give a jerky nod before moving. Pulling out half an inch, Daryl begins to rock the sensitive head, moving an infinitesimal amount further each time until Jesus snaps, pushes back and devours him whole. _To hell with it_ – the thought crosses a barren stretch of Daryl’s mind and next he’s thrusting full-show, pushing deep into a dense, writhing heat.

Jesus moves non-stop, sticking his ass out and angling his hips until one thrust spurs on a louder cry and he braces heavy against the wall, whole body trembling. When Daryl freezes he’s met with a desperate shout of “Yes! _Again–_ ”. He doesn’t need telling twice.

Sinking fingertips hard into pale hips, Daryl twists forward over and over, meeting Jesus’ body flush with every thrust until he hits the home stretch.

“Fuck– Touch me, Daryl, I _need–_ ” He’s too far gone to be articulate, but Daryl catches on through his thundering haze and reaches to wrap fingers around the man’s swollen cock. Jesus cries out almost instantly. The thick flesh pulses strings of come onto the shower tiles as Daryl pulls it through, pounding into the man before him until the wave crests and crashes lightning through his bones.

When they catch their breath, the water’s run cold.

They rinse down in quick movements and hop from the shower, steam barrelling into the next room when Jesus pulls open the door, standing a little awkward on his feet. He looks the hunter over; Daryl’s grabbed a towel and is running it over his skin in sweeping movements.

He waits mute for Daryl to speak. After a few moments, he does, voice hoarse.

“Good thing Hilltop’s seen some rain lately.”

Jesus returns an off-beat smile.

“Yeah… Still, I might have to forego a week’s washing to even the keel.”

More seconds follow. Daryl tugs his towel between his hands, shielding some shred of his modesty, but before he can open his mouth, Jesus speaks.

“Listen, I don’t normally… this isn’t just a thing I always do. I like you.” Jesus scoffs, inwardly awarding himself prize fool. “Feel stupid just saying that, after…”

Daryl steps over, careful, like approaching a wild fawn.

“’s fine. You enjoyed it, right?”

Pink rises to Jesus’ cheeks, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I did. I really did.”

Behind him, the rays angling through the window draw an evening hue, lighting up his hair like a halo. Daryl pulls his gaze away.

“Night, Paul.”

“You could sleep up here.” Daryl stops and turns back from where he’d stooped to gather his things, stiff with a week’s wear and smelling of dirt and god knows what else. Jesus pulls a half-shrug. _Don’t seem overeager_. “With me. If you want.”

“ _You_ want me to?”

“I do. I want it rather a lot, actually.”

The blush on his face darkens, his eyes flit away. And just like that he’s back to that uncertain, self-deprecating manner. Daryl’s never been a cruel man.

“Sure.”

In an instant, Jesus’ face brightens as though sucking in the setting sun.

“Give me a minute.” He’s already pulling on his pants, hopping ludicrously in his hurry. “I’ll grab us something to eat and bring it up here.”

Daryl watches the man throw himself about in search of his boots, slim limbs and wild hair flying every which way, and can’t help the fond smile that rises to his lips.

“I’ll wait.”

He fastens the towel around his hips and sits down, leaning back on the bed, and catches hold of the man’s gaze as he buttons up his shirt. The grin Jesus throws his way hooks  something deep in his chest and pulls, makes it leap up to his throat.

His lips quirk of their own accord.

“I’ll be right back.”

Daryl watches him hurry from the room, content to sit in the quiet of the warm evening light, and takes a slow breath. After all, they have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments highly appreciated :)


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